How I Loathe Him

How I Loathe Him

Slowly, the night crawls towards me,

It clutches, grasps and digs.
I look around at the shadows,

They twist and twirl, trying to make a shape.

I hear a sound,

Like a bitter, cruel laugh.

It chilled me to the bone.

It tells me to run, run far away.

I try to obey it, I try and I try.

I fail.

I'm now stuck in this lightless place,

Forever to challenge my fate.

Night - Me_Ladie

How I loathe him, defeater of Voldemort, boy who lived. The one person who I have usually despised. Of course, he doesn't realise, the naive moron that he is. Stupidly, he trusts, not realising the danger that he's in.

I myself am that danger. I served under Voldemort, took his mark, learnt his secrets and pawed through his books. I now have the power to rip the earth apart, raise the dead, destroy everything he loves, everything he desires.

How pathetic he is, leaving himself open to attack, even though Voldemort is dead. He just doesn't understand how weak he really is. He's like a pile of dog shit, something disgusting you step in and it never comes off your shoe.

His stench clings to me like the foul stench of shit. After spending the evening whoreing myself to him, degrading not only my body, but also my soul, only to hear him cry someone else's name. I pretend I don't hear it; I ignore the pathos of it all. And no one evokes more pity than the boy who lived.

He is so useless that he doesn't even realise the one he loves watches him from afar. He cannot see past his own narcissism. He doesn't notice that the one he loves, is the one I love too. And neither of them realise how they feel for the other... It sickens me.

*~-~*

Once again, I lay under him and try not to move as he pushes into me. He pushes with the same boring pattern he always follows. In, out, In, Out, In, Out, the same constant rhythm, so boring, so dull, so lifeless.

He's grunting now, the sign that he's about to let his juices spill into me. I brace myself, waiting for the inevitable. With one final thrust, he screams out a name. It's not mine, of course; never mine, and I follow. Of course I do; what else am I supposed to do?

He rolls off of me, but I can still feel him on top of me. I can still smell him, still taste him. He looks at me and asks how it was for me. I lie, as usual. Tell him it was amazing, as usual. Resist the desire to maim him, as usual. Then his kisses me and turns off the light.

*~-~*

I am sitting in a 'movie show' with him, sucking on a pink coloured lollipop. I'm not concentrating on the movie, but instead on him. He looks at me, smiles, and continues to watch.

I study him, taking in his all too well known features, smirking at how different they are in the dark. His emerald green eyes look a murky brown; sometimes they flicker white, sometimes yellow, but never that luscious green. His unruly mop of black hair looks like a bush, or a bird's nest. Though somehow, it suits him. I laugh to myself, how imperfect he seems; so unlike the image the world sees. So like the image of him I see.

I can see myself hovering over him. I am holding a long, silver blade. I am poised to strike, but instead I run the knife down his chest, towards his stomach. However, I don't stop there. I keep on going.

I stop at his groin, and inhale his all too familiar scent. The scent that will never leave me, he made sure of that... Slowly, I unbuckle his pants and pull out the tender flesh inside. I raise my knife; I know what I must do. I know I must-

-Wake up from this fantasy. The movie is over and he has already stood up, ready to go. I follow him, like always, and we exit the 'movie show'. I look back, and I can see myself still sitting there with him. I finish my fantasy.

*~-~*

That bastard! That fucking bastard! How dare he do this to me! That selfish son of a bitch!

How dare he leave me again! I have done nothing wrong by him. All I have done is treat him like a flawless God; I let him use me, abuse me. I even let him degrade my body for his own gratification, and yet he still left me...

I always hated him, I always knew he was truly like this; a selfish son of a bitch who doesn't care about anyone but himself.

One day, he will get what's coming to him. One day I will get him as he got me. One day, I will accomplish what Lord Voldemort himself couldn't accomplish. I will destroy him! I will rid the world of his pathetic being forever. I will become immortal, known as the one who brought down the Boy Who Lived.

*~-~*

He came back to me; he always does. He's too stupid to survive on his own; he hasn't even realised that the person he's fucking is gone. After all, the Ministry found them with my knife stuck into them.

And most purebloods say that muggles are stupid. Sometimes I agree, but then I remember that witches and wizards don't have any magic to trace DNA and I smile. Murder is something that is easy to get away with, because most wizards are too foolish to use muggle technology to find a murderer.

*~-~*

I am standing in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, examining myself. I notice droplets of water have formed on the mirror; I watch as they glisten in the light and their own reflection. They run down the mirror and hit the floor with a soundless splash.

Even in their little puddles, they sparkle. They glisten, just like my knife. I hold the metallic blade and watch it scintillate in the light. It reflects everything perfectly. The mirror, the bathroom, myself, Harry-

I turn and face my 'lover'; he looks confused. He asks me what I'm doing with the knife. I wave it in front of his face, giggling, as his expression gets more serious.

He comes closer, but backs away as the knife continues to dance in my hand. It swings, backwards and forwards, twirling occasionally. He tells me to put the knife down before I hurt myself. I laugh.

You poor pathetic fool, I cry, placing the knife on the sink. You think you can save me. Oh, but you cannot.

I walk right up to him, my thigh aligned with his. I roughly grab his chin and pull his head down towards mine. I press my cheek against his, and I continue to talk.

How can you save something you have already lost? How can you save something you have killed, something from which you tore its own existence?

He slowly backs away, shaking his head. He continually mutters no, pulling at his own dark tresses.

Don't you remember? I cry. We were seventeen and very much in love. I told you I had gone over, joined Voldemort. You just couldn't believe it; you just didn't want to believe it.

I watch as the mighty Boy Who Lived falls to the floor. He's sobbing in a heap on the cold, blue tiles. I am breaking him. Yet he couldn't understand those words I was saying to him; he doesn't want to believe it.

Remember how you grabbed a large branch as you screamed at me; remember how you broke my skull? I question, forcing the truth to be recognised. Remember how you pushed my dead corpse into the lake, and then you left me there to rot.

I watch as the man in front of me sobs harshly, realising the full extent of what he's done. He's withering on the floor, looking like he's going to die. I smile; it's his turn to feel the pain.

You soon pushed me out of your mind, soon forgot me. But I was always there, watching, waiting. As you fell in love again, I did too. I pause, remembering the innocent we together destroyed. I was always with you, and you started to remember me again. Slowly I gained a solid form; only when you were around me, of course. You were my source of strength. But I was sharing you with another; they had to go, for me.

Once again, I stop my story, watching as he looks up into my eyes. You killed them, his eyes seem to say, you are a monster.

No, you killed them. I helped you in the only way I could. I influenced you, commanded you. Again, you killed, but didn't acknowledge it. You'd started spending more time with me; I was your refuge. I look away from the man who had caused me so much pain. Foolishly, you began to pour so much of your energy into me. Thoughtlessly, you clung to me, and I began to take a solid form outside of your presence.

He looks at me and trembles; I think that was the moment he understood what was happening. I am similar to the Journal of Tom Riddle, but so much more powerful. He realised what I am: a memory, a life, a love.

Here and now, I will repay you. You who took my life away; and now I will have yours.

I grab the silver blade off the bathroom sink and clutch it tightly. Slowly, I kneel down and flash him his death. I raise the knife above my head, ready to strike.

He begs me to finish him quickly, before anyone else sees him like this, and I obey. As I plunge the knife into his flesh, he whispers my name. In an instant, we switch places; I am the living, and he is the dead. I stand up and walk out of the bathroom. I look back over my shoulder and shoot him a smile.

Murdered by your own mind, I mutter to myself. How ironic.

In some ways, it was ironic, in others it was not. Nevertheless, either way, Harry Potter deserved what he got. Didn't he?